Masquerade
by Riona Winters
Summary: Cover image property of Gold-Seven (from deviant art). When Vladislaus went to the annual All-Hallows-Eve ball that night in Bucharest, his only intention was to engage in a single night of lustful activity. He never planned on an ongoing obsession with the object of his passion: a beautiful, demure mockingbird he longed to set free from a gilded cage of English propriety and duty.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Written and posted with the permission of a friend. This work of fiction is meant for fun - not looking for critiques or criticism. If you feel you __absolutely__ must critique the work or point out grammar, spelling and story structure problems because your head will explode with the indecency of holding it in, then by all means, go ahead._

_Also, please __**note**__ that this story's chapter structure will be a bit different. The chapters will be posted in Point of View style, meaning every two chapters there will be one of his perspective, and one of hers. Wanted to put a spin on the normal story structure._

_The only thing I do not own is the likeness of Dracula - that, my dear readers, is a treasure owned solely by Richard Roxburgh and the creators of Van Helsing._

_**For pictures and other media related to this story, go to my profile. A link to the story's tumblr will be there (i.e. pictures of clothing, the palace, the villa, etc)**_

_Hope you enjoy!_

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_October 31__st__, 1892_

A bright, quarter-full moon shone down upon the night-darkened city of Bucharest, illuminating the streets and rooftops of the fair city just as the fires of budding independence illuminated the hearts of her citizens, shining like a diamond in the sky. The pale goddess's light reflected off of tiles and puddles, metal and lacquered wood, marble and stone, lighting the way for every traveler who moved through the city's streets, guiding pedestrians, horses and drivers through the bustling night. The traffic moving through the city was particularly heavy that night with revelry, as was always the case when the harvest came to an end and All Hallow's Eve came about, and while every man and woman believed that they knew the source of the city-wide celebration, one man in particular knew that he had the story more clearly than the rest.

Alone in a small, closed carriage that clattered slowly through the crowded streets, he neither glanced outwards nor paid any attention to the carriage's interior, his eyes closed and his head bowed slightly, his large body swaying easily with the carriage's rolls and rocks. To the trained eye, this man was clearly unusual, perhaps even aberrant. Each movement of his body, each sweep of his eyes and every word from his mouth sang of unnatural grace and fluidity, as if his life and his person was a clandestine existence he sought to keep covered up. It would be more than unnerving to watch the man for too long a time, such was his perfection.

The man, who had once gone by a name rightly feared across the continent, knew that the church had little claim to lay to the holiday; he'd studied it enough to have a clear idea of what it really was, and to see it with proper disdain as it had changed over the years. What had started as a natural, busy event to commemorate the end of the year, the death of the old and weak, and the parting of the veil between the living and the dead had become a riotous affair celebrating the church's forgiveness of good souls, and their precious saints. The man had no desire to look out his window and see a crowd of drunken idiots laughing and dancing to beliefs he did not hold.

With nothing inside the carriage to draw his attention, Vladislaus contented himself by simply closing his eyes and staring at nothing, taking stock of himself and his person, making sure that he had the measure of his own self to be better prepared to take stock of others. For tonight, he was arrayed all in black and silver, as was his custom on the Eve when the spirits of the dead were loose upon the world. Black kid gloves covered his hands to his wrists, while a shirt of shimmering silver silk clung to his well-muscled torso and arms underneath a double-breasted waistcoat of finest wool, dyed midnight black against two rows of silver buttons running from its lapels to its bottom edge. The silver trim around his lapels matched the thorn-like trim which covered every edge of his black swallowtail dress coat, as well as the silver etchings around the bottommost edges of his shinning black shoes and the silver buckle of the black leather belt wound tightly through the loops of his pressed black slacks. He was intently aware of how his clothing fit against his pale skin, tight in all the right places, fluid where he needed it, presenting him as every inch of a gentleman. The sensations were lessened slightly wherever the cloth pressed against the scars he carried underneath, gently numb in half a dozen places across his torso and legs. A small silver bow holding his jet-black hair back from his sculpted features completed his attire, save for the gleaming silver mask which rested on the seat beside him and the single small stud which hung in his right earlobe. The black star-cut diamond glittered and gleamed with a devious light all of its own, swirling in its' dark depths as it stood stark from his pale skin.

Vladislaus' long fingers steepled before his face as he rode on through the night, drumming slowly as his driver led him on towards the annual Hallow's Eve ball, the place for Bucharest's wealthy and influential individuals to come and share in their own tight-laced brand of revelry. In younger days, Vladislaus had celebrated the night the way it was _meant_ to be: dressed in the bones and pelts of animals slaughtered before the winter, making peace and giving honor to the souls of the dead who had returned for one night, and engaging in debaucheries made both to vitalize the living and tease the dead.

"Little chance of that," he muttered to himself humorously as he rode, his deep, powerful voice filling the small space of the carriage even without volume. The days when he could celebrate in death and spend his nights in ravenous orgies were gone, like so much else from his old life. He had lost a great deal, and given up even more than that, all in exchange for revenge and power which he had thought would last; the revenge was complete and the power had stayed, as had the curse which had accompanied it, but the relevancy and use for that power had waned like an unstable lunar cycle, with no sign of waxing bright once again.

Long ago, just more than four centuries in his past, when he had been known simply as Vlad – Vlad the Voivode of Wallachia, Vlad Dragulia, Vlad the Impaler they had called him posthumously - he had found himself embroiled in dealings with a being even more infernal than himself. A thing he had, at that time, thought largely impossible. The being had called itself Lucifer, and it had claimed that for a very small price, it could give him back his life, richer and deeper than he'd lived it before, with power enough to ensure that he could have his revenge, that he could bathe in blood every night, and sweep away his enemies. But it would come at a small price. Without even asking what that price was, he'd struck the bargain. Too late to go back on their deal, Lucifer took his soul without remorse and in return, Vlad had been reborn something that was undeniably more than what he had been. He was more than human; a predator of the night, with a world of prey to hunt for all time, cursed to kill in Lucifer's name and be a slave to the musings of such a creature. Lucifer had even given him a new identity to accompany the vast, devious powers she had given him: vampire.

For decades, centuries even, he had done as his infernal mistress (for Lucifer chose to take the form of a woman) had willed, wearing her glistening black shackle in his right ear and drinking the blood of the living in the dead of night, leaving bodies in his wake both under the sun and the moon. She had told him since his thirst for blood in life had never been quenched, neither would it be in death.

He had grown older, wiser, more sure of his superiority over these weak fleshlings that so readily populated the planet, more confident in his practiced power…but just as he had grown, so too had his world. The savage days of his youth and first life faded, and a new, supposedly-civilized life rushed to claim the space it had held, and while Vladislaus knew beyond any shadow of a doubt he still craved blood, to spill and drink…he was much more precise in his efforts of claiming that, picking and choosing his conquests.

Feeling a lack of purpose and the unbearable weight of history bear down upon him, he had retreated within himself, and found what he had already feared was true: lifetimes of bloody death and corruption had robbed him of more than his pity and his empathy. For close to two hundred years, he had lived with a sensation of emptiness, a void in his body and pitch-stained soul, a hollow that no amount of sanguine feeding or bloody carcasses made in sport could fill. All that remained of him was left bitter and cold, frozen by his inner desolation, and in his everlasting winter, more and more of himself (his _human_ self) ha stilled and eventually fell silent, going quietly into the good night that was his life. Hope had died within him, leaving only his surety in what _was_, rather than what _might be_; self-doubt had been dead inside him for centuries, leaving only confidence that had often been mistaken for arrogance.

But always there remained his needs for blood, for life, for the heat and passion that he remembered from his youth, for the fires of the living which he had yet to stoke or to snuff. Such was his goal as he rode through the night, finally opening his eyes and lifting his head as he sensed his destination approaching, the bright blue of his irises shining in his hooded sockets, glowering under his thick, dark brows. A glance to his right showed the site of this year's ball coming closer and closer, a grand palace of marble which glowed with innumerable candles, torches, braziers and gas lights, illuminating other revelers as they entered the opulent construct.

"Once more," Vladislaus husked under his breath, his thick accent rolling off his tongue like honey as he reached across for his mask, slowly lifting the masterfully crafted silver plate up to his face and fastening the thin strap under his hair, pulling the elegant façade of a smoky demonic visage over his eyes, brow and nose, leaving his mouth unobstructed beneath the bright leather. He took a slow breath as he felt the carriage come around to the main entrance of the palace and slowly grind to a halt. The clatter of the horses' hooves against the gravel drive and the swelling music from within became more audible as a porter immediately opened the door for him, greeting him as he swept out and stood tall before the palace steps, taking them two at a time after leaving the porter his name.

He was asked again for his title upon mounting the summit of the steps; "To introduce you, sir," the butler minding the front door claimed with a low, sweeping bow.

"Vladisluas DaLucar," He said contemptuously, not bothering to turn his head or even grant the servant a second, fleeting glance as he swept by the barking butler and into the palace itself. He heard his name ring out amidst another two newcomers behind him, and paid no mind; those who needed to know his name would hear it from his own lips. He stood for a moment past the threshold, gazing into the ballroom, which formed the center of the palace's hall, a vast, cavernous space filled with tables of food and drink, which filled the air with delicious aromas. The space was lit from above with chandeliers of imported French glass and gas lights along the walls, a fresco covering the ceiling entertaining all who gave it a second's look, portraits and landscapes placed high enough on the walls to escape spilled wine. Bodies milled all about, every face covered in a gaudy mask, jewelry and finery burning the eyes with reflected light, rousing music assaulting the ears from all around. Vladislaus could feel the vibrations through the floor of pummeling feet stepping in time, and the ambient throbbing of a building full of beating hearts, as though the hollow marble columns were filled with a blood all of their own.

"Let us go and find the heart," he murmured to himself, stepping out into the crowds of celebrating nobles, the aura of uncaring power which surrounded him at all times driving away the herd and clearing a path before him. He ignored the stares he felt upon him; he heard the whispers of the curious and the disdainful and paid them no heed. Women eyed him like a piece of meat, but he hardly acknowledged them. His keen eyes and sharp nose swept the space around him, searching, seeking for the one thing which could allow him to count this night as any kind of success: a single, suitable prey.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Here is the next chapter, but this one is in_ **her **point of view.

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_October 31__st__, 1892_

In the southern most corner of Villa DeVrenne, in an opulent and vibrantly lit room swathed in gold and pink trims there sat on an elaborate Turkish pouf a young lady in her mid twenties. She wore only her undergarments: petticoat, bodice and drawers along with some silk, knee-high stockings. Everything about the young lady was near perfect. From her petite feet to her slender, perfectly manicured hands to her soft, porcelain skin and wide, deep blue eyes. Her light red hair was pinned up on one side with a simple crystal trinket, the rest of the curled locks flowing down to just above the small of her back. Indeed, the only blemish she truly had was an ugly scar that ran along her spine, carefully hidden by layers of clothing and her hair. A grand, satin gown - navy-blue with gold trim - was laid on the four-poster bed, awaiting its wearer to don it with grace.

But the wearer did no such thing.

In fact, the intended wearer did not move from her position. Her shoulders were slumped, her hands resting in her lap and her head bowed. In the privacy of her bedroom, a tragic picture is what she made. The stunning creature with the face of an angel seemed lonely and sad, as if she'd accepted a most heartbreaking fate and was doomed to travel alone.

Single tear fell from her eye, but that was all she allowed. Nothing more, nothing less. In the privacy of her room, she would cry.

A knock sounded on the large oak doors and she raised her head. She looked at the offending piece of architecture forlornly. In fluid movements she stood, pulling on her dressing-robe and composed herself. In the span of a few seconds, she looked as if that tear had not fallen and everything within the world was right and as it should be.

"Come in," her voice was soft, but firm. A small smile in place as she awaited her guest.

Rose, her lady's maid, bustled in and immediately went for the gown on the bed. "'Ere now, Miss Juliette, sorry for my tardiness– Mr. Henderson needed the servants in the hall for a moment. Come on then, let's get you dressed,"

Juliette nodded, saying nothing as she turned and let the robe fall from her shoulders. Rose took the garment and neatly folded it before placing it on a whicker chair next to the vanity. She then took the gown and, after requesting the young lady place her arms over her head, shimmied the satin gown upon her mistress.

Juliette, meanwhile, moved as if on autopilot as she stared out the floor-length window on the opposite side of the room. The night was quite dark save for the dots of firelight coming from the gas streetlamps. Dark shapes could be seen moving along the street, their silhouettes accented by the silvery moonlight.

Rose directed the young lady to the bedpost and bid her to hold on to it as she tightened the laces of the bodice. The young lady hardly even grunted at the forceful handling of the maid.

"'Old out your arms, miss. I need to attach the sleeves," Juliette did as bid and Rose fastened the flowing sleeves to just above her elbows. "There now, give us a turn then,"

Plastering on a smile, Juliette turned, her voluminous skirts splaying around her in a grand gesture. Rose gasped. "Oh, Miss Juliette you're a vision! You'll be the belle of the ball tonight you will," She smiled a bit weepily.

Juliette patted her maid on the back with a kind smile. "There, there Rose. There'll be no crying. You promised."

"Oh I'm sorry miss, it's just…you look so grown up. If only your mum could see you. She'd be so proud," the maid sniffed, then her eyes widened. "Oh! Your mask!" Rose grabbed the elegant mask off the nightstand and, after bidding her lady to turn, attached it to her head. "There now, you're complete,"

Juliette turned and smiled. "Thank you Rose," she said graciously.

"Now, don't go wanderin' off with any o' them strange men, you hear? You're our English rose and we can't have you carted off to a foreigner. Your dad would have their head anyhow, I imagine," Rose muttered the last bit as she shooed Juliette out the door. "And be sure you dance some tonight. Put them legs to good use, yeah?" Juliette smiled and nodded as she made her way down the hall. Rose called out from the door. "And for heaven's sake, wear your cloak! It's cold out there! And bring your shawl to cover your shoulders, y'hear?

"Thank you Rose, I shall." A small, endearing grin made it's way on to the young lady's features.

Juliette made her way down the marble staircase, her heeled shoes making clacking sounds on the stone and echoed through the hall. She lifted her skirts a bit higher, careful not to tread on the fine satin. Once at the lower landing, she made her way to the foyer and smiled when she saw her father standing there in a simple black suit with a simple black mask and a decorative cane speaking to their head butler, Mr. Henderson. He was a portly man in his early fifties with salt and pepper hair and a bushy white mustache. He was an intimidating fellow but he was also quite likeable and charismatic. Perfect for a diplomat of England. When he saw his daughter, his usually stern face broke into a warm smile.

"Ah, my darling daughter, how lovely you look this evening," His rich baritone voice reverberated in the grand hall as he stepped forward to offer her his arm. Juliette smiled as one of the servants brought her cloak and draped it over her bare shoulders. She accepted her father's beefy arm with grace.

"Thank you, father. And you…you look quite handsome," she said with a small teasing smile.

"Oh, balderdash. I am only enduring this wretched evening-"

"Because you have to. You're England's first and finest diplomat. The Queen could not be here and so you represent her," Juliette lightly admonished. "It would not do to not show, I think,"

Her father bristled a little and cleared his throat. "Yes well, quite right, my dear. Henderson, is the carriage around?" He said, dismissing the matter as he escorted his daughter to the front door.

"Indeed sir. It is awaiting your departure," the butler said, opening the door with a slight bow as the diplomat and his daughter walked out into the brisk night air

"Very good. Let us not delay any further. We should be back some time in the wee hours of the morning, my good man." Her father said as he assisted Juliette into the carriage, following in close behind her.

With a snap of his whip, the driver had the horses trotting off at a steady pace towards the ball.

The trip was uneventful, if a little bumpy. While away on diplomatic affairs, Sir Richard DeVrenne and his daughter Juliette were afforded the highest of luxuries as the voice of England. The carriage was no exception. It's padded seats were fluffy and well taken care of; flowers adorned the corners of the cabin and the curtained windows slid down easily should the riders wish for fresh air.

As it was, the night was far too chilly for any such thing. Juliette stared out the window at the passing town, her face carefully schooled into one of complacency and quite musings. Inside, she desperately wished to be home reading a book by the fire. She quite hated these political gatherings. They were so boring.

"…daughter of Count and Countess Menchia should be there. Along with the daughter of Monsieur and Mademoiselle LaSalle. You shouldn't be too bored, I think," Her father said genially. "Oh, and I do believe Mister and Missus Smith's son - from America, you remember? – what was his name?"

"Daniel," Juliette supplied automatically.

"Ah, yes, that's right. Well, they'll be there too I expect. Along with a host of other people we'll know. I've heard wonderful things about this ball. The Romanians sure know how to put on a party, my dear. Who knows, maybe you'll hear tales of fantastical creatures – vampires, werewolves and witches and the like. You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you?"

Juliette turned and gave her father a charming smile. "I would indeed, father. I'm sure I shall be quite entertained," she said.

Her father studied her for a minute, then chuckled, oblivious to her feigned enthusiasm. "Yes, I think you will,"

Soon, the carriage came to a stop and a footman opened the door. Her father vacated first and, after shooing the footman away, offered his daughter his hand. Lifting her skirts, she stepped carefully out, taking the proffered hand and delicately stepping onto the cobblestone.

A gust of wind blew her black cloak around her, the fabric whipping around her person almost majestically. Juliette laid eyes on the grand palace and couldn't help but allow a small gasp of wonderment leave her pale lips. Her father had heard it.

"Quite a site to behold, isn't it my dear?" he jutted his cane in the direction of the venue. "I can only imagine what it is like on the inside," he said, escorting the young lady up the steps.

Many pairs of eyes fell on the two, or more specifically, the woman. Even in the dark light of the moon, she was still something of a vision; ethereal under the silver glow of the moon.

They came to the entrance and the doormen swept down in a deep bow before showing them to the announcer. Her father muttered their names and titles as a servant took her cloak and gave her a slip of paper to retrieve it later. Juliette placed it in her small bag before retaking her father's arm. They stood at the top of the stairwell, waiting their turn to be announced. As they waited, the young lady took in the extravagance that was the ball.

She marveled at the assembly of people and the decorations that graced the room. It was marvelous. Rich colors of gold, deep purple and blue were accented everywhere. There were entertainers and jugglers, poets and singers all wearing masks of varying beauty or grotesqueness. It was fascinating and quite exciting.

"Announcing His Lordship and Diplomat of her Majesty Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom, Sir Richard DeVrenne and his enchanting daughter, Lady Juliette Elizabeth DeVrenne,"

As always. Juliette blushed at their announcement. She did not like being the center of attention, even for a few moments. She felt eyes on her as men and women alike ogled at the young lady – if she was a vision in the darkness of the night, then she was an absolute dream in the light of the grand hall.

Whispers and muttering followed Juliette and her father down the staircase; she did her best to ignore it as she glided with grace down the steps. She kept her head high and her face neutral, smiling when she caught someone's eye that she knew, nodding at others in acknowledgment of their silent appraisal.

It felt like an eternity before they made it to the floor. When they did, the pair was immediately swarmed by dozens of people wishing to make their acquaintance or to re-introduce themselves of someone of importance

Let it begin, Juliette thought with no small amount of sadness as she prepared to play the polite and ever-captivating daughter of Sir Richard DeVrenne.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: __**His**__ point-of-view_

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_October 31st, 1892_

At all times, Vladislaus kept his ears trained to the sound of the announcer's voice, picking out names and stations, ranks and levels of nobility; it had been some time since he'd taken the blood of a princess, and with the country in turmoil there seemed to be more and more of them about. He also listened for the names of enemies, or descendants of kin or friends; after four centuries, whole generations of his family tree lay dead behind him, but there was always the possibility of some distant seed sprouting up.

"The Lord Gerard LeChieve of Pentemont!" Vladislaus heard the name as he weaved his way between a pair of bare-chested fire-eaters who were spewing flaming schnapps overhead, paying neither the pyromaniacs nor the entering noble any heed.

"Her Ladyship, the Duchess Parson and her Protector, Vie le Sans!" The vampire cocked an eyebrow behind his mask at the second name to be shouted, one he recognized from deep in his past; the descendant of a foe long dead, descendant from a cousin, perhaps. He turned his head and took in the man with a glance, making note of his attire and height to better pick him out of a crowd, memorizing him and the woman he had entered with for future reference.

He was a moment away from turning back and proceeding through the hall when the next guests to enter appeared over the stairs, immediately grabbing the vampire's attention. Two people, a man and a woman, the man carrying the boring appearance of a diplomat, the woman…

'Her,' came a voice in Vladislaus's ear, faint and ethereal and tinged with a hint of unknowable malice, like the half-heard buzzing of a will-o-wisp, emanating from his diamond stud as his attentions focused on the woman who had entered. 'Hers is the life you so foolishly seek.'

"Silence," he sub-vocalized, inaudible to the crowd around him; Lucifer's mark was a fickle device, helpful only when it knew that it was sending him towards trouble, and as he heard the announcer name the two newcomers, he realized exactly where the trouble would start. To his eyes, it was painfully obvious how unhappy she was, how loathsome she found her situation; he could taste the malcontent that she wore beneath the mask of her smile, smell the intelligence that hid under the perfume woven into her indigo dress. Her stature, so poised and practiced, obviously tailored to accentuate her father's importance. And he, a foreigner, and a powerful one such as this, would try to make things difficult if he suspected that Vlad was hunting his daughter.

The vampire smirked and chuckled under his breath as he turned around to face the two as they descended to the floor. "Let him try." His eyes narrowed as he scanned the fifty feet between himself and the girl who he had marked as his target, taking in the milling guests, the almost autonomous waiters and the cavorting entertainers; he picked out lights, tables, chairs, columns, and like a chess grandmaster plotting his game twenty moves ahead, he laid out the hall before him like a board of pieces to move.

He moved the moment he found the avenue, stepping into the crowd and weaving seamlessly towards a table laden with glasses of fruit, cheese, champagne and wine. He pinched a grape off a bunch displayed with other fruits, holding it between his pinkie and ring fingers as a deft sweep of his left hand brought three glasses precariously close to the edge of the table, dropping the grape to the floor with enough spin to let it roll a foot away, directly into the intended path of a dancing couple. He left them behind him, continuing to move, cutting right across the floor as he saw a small crowd clamor around the DeVrenne duo. He caught glimpses of the girl's face between breaks in the crowd, and almost laughed; she put up a good front, but she might as well have been an open book to his too-experienced eyes. His right hand lifted and discretely relieved an unaware woman of one of her hairpins, the three-inch-long spike of narrow metal hiding against his coat sleeve as he moved back towards the pair of fire-breathers.

He reached the two while they were preparing for their next flaming burst, coming close to one just as the dancing couple he'd left reached the first of his distractions, the man's right foot catching on the grape he'd let fall. The small fruit crushed open, and slid underfoot on a small pool of slippery juice that carried him too far over and forced him to bump into the table. The bump caused the three glasses to teeter and fall, one by one, a chorus of three smashing glasses ringing out into the hall and sending a puddle of red wine across the marble floor, causing everyone within ten feet to pull back in mild shock. The fire-breathers, as well as most of the hall's occupants, glanced up at the disturbance; Vladislaus didn't even break his stride, turning around to the fire-breather's blind side and flicking the hairpin up into the air, arcing gracefully and dropping noiselessly into one of the fire-breather's bottles of fuel, blunt end pointed towards the opening.

The vampire kept moving, always towards his prey, never directly, using the people around him to keep from being noticed, moving around lights instead of through them, between columns, never pausing until he had managed to move around the cluster of people surrounding the DeVrenne girl, appearing behind her and her father just as the fire-breathers started their next routine. As the one unlucky enough to have the pin tipped his bottle back and immediately choked on the metal which jabbed the back of his throat, Vladislaus discretely pushed a hand between the girl's arm, pressing his left hand to Juliette's left shoulder and leaning close to her ear, unnoticed by all as the fire-breather convulsed and spewed an uncontrolled spray of liquor over his torch, spraying wild fire around him that disappeared quickly.

"Milady, I believe that this dance would suit a lady of your stature quite well," he husked lowly into her ear, his voice heavy and dark, his accent coming through just as the band began to play a slow waltz, attempting to take people's attention away from the disturbance.


End file.
